The Ones You Love
by AntipodeanOpaleye
Summary: What happened when 'Adam' was Adam no more.


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Title: The Ones You Love

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Author: AntipodeanOpaleye

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Rating: PG-13

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Summary: What happened when 'Adam' was Adam no more.

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Disclaimer: Everything you recognize from any other source either doesn't belong to me or is a purely coincidental occurrence. Anything that you've never seen probably belongs to me. I write for enjoyment and no copyright infringement is intended.

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A/N: Another incredibly random, rather nonsensical piece I wrote earlier this year. I'm not even incredibly sure why I'm posting it, but hey. I resolved to edit one of my old fics, Transgenic: A Hybrid Heresy, and finish it up in the near future, so I figure maybe it's the need for something new right this minute that inspired me to put this up. In any case, I know it's rushed, rather vague as far as plot goes, and rather annoyingly detailed in other unimportant areas. And my apologies in advance for typos, spelling, and grammatical errors. But I sorta liked it. Plus I adore Zack, and as I'm working on a few short pieces involving him that are now put on hold due to my newfound commitment to Transgenic, this is the best I could due for now. This was originally written for The Broken World's Fanficiton and Art Awards (visit the lovely site at awards . thebrokenworld . org) I do hope you enjoy it, at least a little.

If you can, please read and review; I'll adore you and/or give you imaginary pixilated chocolate chip cookies. They taste delicious, by the way ;)

AO

"Mama," Caroletta called from her room at the end of the hall. Mary, the mother in question, sighed deeply as she shot me an exasperated glance. "Adam, dear, will you watch the vegetables for me while I see what she wants?"

"Of course, Mrs. Lancaster."

"Adam, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Mary? S'been nearly five years you've been working here, an' living on with Buddy and me, and the children; you're good enough to be family. So it's Mary, ya hear?"

"Yes, Mrs. Lancaster," I replied with a mischievous grin. She was right; she'd asked me countless times not to call her by a name so impersonal, and instead to refer to her as anything from Mary, Mae, or Mare to Mom or even Mama Jo, as her nephews often did. I'd never complied, so she'd recently conceded to only requesting that I call her Mary, or something closer to that nature. Regardless; it was only occasionally that I actually gave into her persistent nagging.

Mary sighed in annoyance, throwing her hands up irritably as she stalked down the hall. I smirked good-naturedly at her retreating form, making my way towards the small, pre-Pulse stovetop upon which a large vat of home-grown potatoes, carrots, and onions were boiling efficiently. Removing the oversized pan from the heat beneath it, I carried the scalding roaster towards the old-fashioned porcelain sink. Emptying the water expertly from the pot, I squinted at the steam as it rose from the steady stream of torrid liquid colliding with the contrasting frigidity of the basin. I quickly separated the potatoes into a smaller tub, preparing them for mashing, while taking the carrots and onions and wrapping them gingerly in rectangles of foil as I sprinkled amounts of garlic and Cajun seasoning that were measured only by experience. Cooking, I'd learned, was an art, and definitely not a skill to be jeered at: besides, I was still an amateur.

Spooning generous amounts of margarine atop the potatoes, and drenching the piles with milk fresh from the morning's cattle rounds, I spun to the oven to insert the vegetable packets before moving back to begin whipping at the potatoes. Mary's always claimed I make the best mashed potatoes of anyone in the house, because I can beat at them forever without tiring, and in so eliminate 'all those nasty little clumps o' uncooked taters,' as she so called them.

It seems as if I'm predisposed to life on the ranch. The other farm-hands are more part-time workers; they don't live among the Lancasters day in and day out as I have for so long. Perhaps that's because I do most of the work; I'm not so imperceptive that I haven't noticed that I can carry things none of the others can, or continue working long after my companions have nearly collapsed with exhaustion.

I continued to work at making dinner until I could no longer ignore the distraction down the hall. It wasn't their conversation that caught my attention; I wasn't one for eavesdropping. No, it was the television. I don't remember ever once watching television in the history of my existence. However, seeing as I can't remember anything prior to the past few years, that may not be quite true. But, at least during my time here, I've never seen a television show. Mary and Buddy never watched television, but I knew that Caroletta had a small black a white television in her room. I'd never had any desire to watch it, nor to inquire about it, for I'd never been provoked to do so; not once had I caught her in close proximity to it, let alone consciously watching it. So when I detected the unfamiliar buzzing monotone of the news reporter wafting towards my ears from down the hall, I was intrigued. And so I followed the sound to the slightly opened door.

"Shh… baby, you know we can't let him hear."

"But Mama, they say it's gotten bad there. Worse than it's been even the pas' two years or so."

"It's no matter t'us, sweetie. And no matter to Adam, neither."

"But…"

"No buts," Mary was adamant, there was no denying it; however, her twelve-year-old daughter had learned well the powers of persuasion, not only from her mother, but also from her father, and Buddy was undoubtedly better than his wife at charming his way into or out of things. Mary never stood a chance against the conniving Caroletta.

"Yes buts, Ma. It's all over the news, on every channel, every hour. There's nothing else. Doesn't that say something? Even presidential elections aren't on TV as much as this."

"Dear, you know the doctors said that even years later, Adam might have some problems with drastic news or stress. We can't risk him learning about this type of thing, it might worry him, being so close to that sort of violence."

"But you said that before he came here to work with us, before his accident, even, that he had friends there in Seattle. Shouldn't he know, in case his friends are in danger?"

"That'll only upset him. Besides, there's nothing he can do for them." Mary was silent for a moment, and I could picture her watching the small screen with dull, uninterested eyes. However, that mental image was altered as I began to register the words coming from behind the wooden barrier that separated me from them.

"…units have yet to deployed even at this late time. Congress has been debating the use of military force for over two years now in response to the transgenic threat, but such arguments have been, thus far, futile. No truly notable mass activity has taken place here in Seattle, save the routine burglary, skirmish, and the occasional fatality, the likes of which have plagued the city since the arrival of the transgenics here in Terminal City."

"But…" she was never given the opportunity to finish though. I heard the footsteps, seemingly, before they even began, and moved faster than I had ever recalled having moved before.

I ate dinner quietly that night, saying nothing and responding to my surrounding with little more than a polite smile and a nod with every compliment thrown my way in regard to the vegetables. I must have missed a few, or have replied belatedly at times, because there had been more than one misplaced, questioning glance thrown my way. Images, voices; memories I'd never before even fathomed having began flooding my consciousness. Names; Zack, Max, Alec, Ben, Tinga, Brin, Syl, Krit, Jondy, Zane, Eva, Jack, Lydecker, White, Eddie… each with a face associated solely with them, some along with a number. Subconsciously, my hand flew to the back of my neck, rubbing furiously at the skin beneath the shaggy blonde hair that reached past my shoulders. And then; eyes. A face. A name. Logan. And a hatred that I didn't quite understand.

It seemed as if pieces to a puzzle were falling into place. The real reason as to why Buddy and Mary never watched television when I was around, why they constantly excused their behavior by claiming that they were tired or they 'didn't much care for the programming.' And why there were no mirrors in the house where I might find them; use them… so that I would never notice the barcode that I had no doubt graced the back of my neck.

"Car," I entered the room cautiously, whispering her name.

"Adam?" she hissed in surprised, and I could see her straighten into a sitting position on her bed in the pitch black room.

"Yeah," I replied uncomfortably. Suddenly, the two syllables that composed the word 'Adam' were too much for me to handle. They had become foreign, even malignant, in the span of only a few short hours.

"What is it?" the concern in her voice sent a surge of guilt through me as I contemplated the things I was about to ask of her. It was unfair; I knew that. But it had to be done.

"I need you to do something for me."

She was silent, but I could sense that she was waiting for an explanation as to what my elusive 'something' truly was before she made her reply.

"First, I need you to tell me something."

"What?"

I walked briskly towards her, turning on her bedside lamp as I passed by it, and kneeling on the floor beside her, my back to her eyes.

"What are the numbers below the barcode?"

I could feel her hesitation as her soft fingers slid across the black skin where the image marred my flesh.

"3304…" I recited them along with her, in my head. And when she paused briefly, I finished aloud.

"17291599."

"Yes." She swallowed, her breathing coming faster as she continued. "You're… you're one of them."

I sighed. How could I explain to her the realizations I'd come to when I didn't even truly understand them myself? She was undoubtedly more informed on the siege in Seattle than I, yet she didn't have the memories, the ideologies; these thoughts that were now flooding my brain. I didn't have the heart to impart such burdening things upon her. No, I had the heart to do so, of perhaps lack thereof, but I lacked the patience. Instead, I skillfully evaded her questioning gaze and chose instead a simple inquiry of my own. "Do you have any scissors?"

"Scissors?"

"Scissors," I confirmed as she leaped from the bed and approached her small, weathered desk in the corner, rummaging through the top drawer before returning with a pair of plain metal shears.

"I'll be back soon. Before sunrise."

I had to find a place with a mirror, and in so that became my very first objective. It wasn't so difficult; the most trying part was the fact that the Lancaster Ranch was at least ten miles from any brand of civilization. And so, when I finally made it into the small town that awaited me, I was somewhat annoyed at the delay, though it was not so much a setback as I had expected, as I had moved quicker than I was accustomed to. It was something that I somehow associated with normalcy. In any case, I was fortunate enough that post-Pulse America had become home to a plethora of 24-hour supermarkets and specialty shops, and there were no less than twenty buzzing fluorescent lights as I approached the village's interior. I had very rarely ventured here in the past, but I could clearly recall a certain 'Dandy's Way' that was rather diverse in both its clientele and its assets.

My first stop was, coincidentally, nearest the entrance of the store. I wasn't confident enough with the flawless execution of my plan in my current ensemble of worn, faded jeans with rips at the knees and a tattered plaid flannel shirt. It was with ease and rapidity that I was able to shrug out of the clothes behind the flimsy changing room dividers, and into a snug fitting black tee-shirt, dark jeans that almost appeared ebony in color, strangely well made combat boots, and a sleek leather jacket. Much improved; it was a good deal more clandestine than what I had been wearing. Running my fingers through my far-too-abundant mane of hair, I returned to the main bulk of the store, moving swiftly towards my next destination.

It didn't take long to find a sort of grooming section in the run-down shop; the pink aura of the cosmetics and the nauseatingly fragrant flush of colognes and perfumes were unmistakable. I ventured into the depths of the mascara and foundation sections to scout out the largest makeup mirror I could fit into the pocket of my coat, settling on a single foot squared piece that I could barely conceal under my newly acquired jacket. I managed, however, and continued onward towards the edge of the store I was most familiar with.

The camouflage was offset by the radiant orange that overran the outdoor sporting goods section; a division that could be found even in a produce market these days. I inched closer to the counter, effectively catching the attention of a short, balding man who had previously appeared to be enthralled by the pages of 'Oliver Twist.'

"May I help you, sir?"

"Handguns. Got myself robbed while I was on vacation, and just got back into town. Don't trust no one with my weaponry needs but this place here, and I figure that I shouldn't go no longer without, ya hear me?" I hated the words coming out of my mouth; hated them with a vengeance. I felt oddly superior to these simple phrases, to this unrefined dialect. Yet I used them regardless, out of tactical necessity, strategically, in order to manipulate the target, to achieve the higher goal.

I shuttered nearly imperceptibly as these thoughts registered themselves, revealing the stark contrast between 'Zack' and 'Adam.'

The older salesman smiled warmly, nodding in obvious agreement to my previous words, leading me over to a nearby case of glass. He procured a ring of keys from his belt, opening the sliding door and removing a streamlined piece that appeared to be similar to the style I had envisioned purchasing that evening. He handed it to me and I took it expertly in my hands as he began to describe it.

". 45 caliber automatic," he began, but I finished the sentence for him.

"It's a re-issue of the Glock 21, is it not?"

"Surely is, sir. 13 round magazine capacity. Nice defensive piece."

"It is," I replied, stating it as a fact that I was well aware of, though I was unsure of where my confidence was derived from. "Mind showing me how I might go about loading it?"

"What, you've never had one before?"

I shook my head in what I had no doubt was convincing dissent as I continued to eye the gun in my hands, turning it, inspecting it critically with an eye trained by years of weapons instruction, by hands that seemed as if they existed for the sole purpose of being molded around the trigger of a firearm. I acutely detected the man's retreating footsteps, the clanging of metal doors to what must have been an ammunition cabinet, and his approaching footfalls yet again. He hadn't closed, nor locked, the bullet case.

He had allowed me to maintain a firm grasp upon the gun as he loaded it satisfactorily. I didn't listen to his explanation, but grunted in reply at certain intervals to maintain a façade of interest, or at least polite inattention. Dramatic irony was something I had always been rather fond of; it would be rather nice for him to load the gun, albeit poorly so, that would eventually lead to my triumph.

"How much?"

"It runs high on the upper markets, so we can keep the price lofty as long the rich bastards still left in this country keep their interest. However, my boss is liquidating the piece because the police say there's been too much gun violence around here involving them. I was supposed to have them gone by yesterday, so you'd be doing me a favor by taking one off my hands. How about, say, $200 bucks. That's a great deal, mind you; they're rather affordable around these parts anyway, but you'd be paying a hell of a lot more in the city, whereas…" he froze, as I had expected him to, when my grip tightened in turn upon the gun and, almost simultaneously, on the trigger. I knew what the gun was worth, I didn't need him to force feed me useless facts that I was already aware of if it served no obvious purpose.

"I think I'll just relieve you of this particular piece, if it's all the same to you." Cocking the gun with precision and speed, I drew myself up, towering over the man as he cowered before me and the gunpoint at which I held him. I smirked maliciously, the control I now possessed overcoming me as I blurred with unthinkable speed at the man and viciously delivered a paralyzing uppercut to his jaw, knocking him to the cracked tile flooring, where would undoubtedly be remaining for some time afterwards.

I had no particular reason to rush, and in so I set a leisurely pace as I walked to the still-open ammunition display, taking as much of it as I possibly could before turning back to the arms counter. Stepping over the unconscious body I'd left in front of it, I removed a similar gun to the one I held from it's resting place; the Glock Model 30, nigh identical to the 21, but smaller. I had to admit, it was pure genius to bring back these vintage specimens of perfection. Flipping the piece to lie securely inside my coat, I returned both hands to the original Model 21 as I approached the front of the store with an almost jovial stride.

The woman at the check out was no more than a child; 13 at the most. I contemplated lifting another establishment, for her sake, but the idea was fleeting. I had no attachment to this girl, no responsibility for her wellbeing. She was nothing. She meant nothing.

"Empty the register. Now." My voice was cold; both horrifying foreign and comforting in its familiarity at the same time. The girl complied promptly, whimpering at the sight of my gun pointed towards her, trembling as she handed over the satisfactory amount of cash that was available to her. I took the liberty to empty out the three other registers myself, each holding a good deal more than the next. I was compensated at that point, and left hastily with a warning shot to the sky, taking out a lighting fixture with the bullet.

Stopping in a small alleyway between a bar and an auto parts store, I took the scissors that I had hidden within the folds of my oversized jacket, positioning them in mid air as I studied my reflection in the slightly warped mirror. Snipping erratically at one side and consequently at the other, I managed to achieve an appearance that was similar to the broken memories that had begun to overflow within my mind, beginning to connect and right themselves as their numbers multiplied. I looked… like a warrior, a leader; hardened and analytical; like a killer, who would go to any lengths necessary to reach my ends; like an older brother, with siblings that still needed my protection and support, my love; I looked like a man named Zack.

And a soldier referred to as 599.

And now that I looked like him, I had to find someone whom he knew. Someone whom the Zack I was becoming, the Zack I really was, was unfailing sure lived here, even after all that had happened; I was certain she had returned to this backwoods area. I knew her too well; her ways, her idiosyncrasies, her very nature; and I was certain of her whereabouts. And so I eyed the scattering of vehicles that were still out at this time of the evening, parked haphazardly about. My attention was captured by a sleek motorcycle that appeared to be a newer model Honda. It was within seconds that I hot wired the bike and took off towards my destination.

It was almost as if she were waiting for me, when I finally arrived. She was alone, in the driveway of the small apartment building, swirling the very last of her beer around the sage-green glass bottle she held in her right hand. She never once looked up as I pulled the bike next to the crimson Lexus that she was leaning on. She did acknowledge me as I approached, and the shock in her eyes was immediately evident as she recognized me.

"Zack?"

I smiled, embracing her tightly, enjoying the feeling of reunion as she returned the gesture. As we pulled apart, I knew that there was not time for small talk or personal anecdotes at this point; I needed to be direct. Now that I knew the truth.

"I need to talk to you about something."

I didn't need to go any further, for she dived into the topic with great ease. She spoke of what she knew of the siege in Seattle, who was there, what they were doing, what they were feeling and thinking. I found it fascinating, but knew that the short history would end soon and turn towards the woman in charge of the transgenics there. It indeed wasn't long until it came to that point.

"Max needs help; she's forgotten what it means to be a soldier. If she's going to lead a nation of people who thrive on obedience and order, her thought process is too freedom-ridden to get anything accomplished."

I only nodded. But it wasn't a blindly acquiescent nod, nor one without authority. It was concurrent, certainly, but also a sign that I was permissive of the continuation of this conversation. Having such confidence, such supremacy… it was utterly natural. As if this was how it had always been. How it was meant to be. How I was meant to be.

"When I last saw her, she was with another X5; Designation: 494. Do you know anything about him?" The factual information rolled off my tongue without hesitation. I was certain now; there was no more doubt in my mind about the differences between reality and fantasy, what was and wasn't true, how things had come to be as they were. I was sure, and more importantly, I was myself. And I could tell that she realized this as well in her response.

"Only that he was one of the best specimens Manticore ever spit out. They say his combat technique was used as a model for the standard training programs for the more recent X Series models. I worked with him once, on a black-ops mission right after my reindoctrination was complete. He was fascinating; he prides himself in his professional presentation, his ability to remain completely calm and focused upon his goal. He was a leader, but not overbearingly so. Stoic, unemotional on the surface. Whether he faltered within, no one would ever know, because his façade was so cold and flawless. I got a hold of one of his files while I worked with Renfro; he had a single blemish on his record involving a woman he seemed to have developed feelings for on a mission. Manticore straightened him up rather well after that; because that incident took place some time before my run-in with 494. But truly, he was inspiring for a soldier like me; someone aspiring to redeem themselves by reaching the very top, by achieving unsurpassed skill and glory. Because that was what he was."

"He has no doubt had similar ideas as ours, if he is the leader you claim him to be." I replied calmly, the words cool and calculated, welcoming further input.

"I've been in contact with a number of the residents of Terminal City. 494 is reluctant to openly defy the established authority, regardless of his knowledge of its obviously flawed composition. He remains second-in-command, however, in title only. The transgenics follow orders only after he has agreed with them, and act according to his wishes. Max has little to no power at this point, and it will be rather effortless on our part to instigate the installation of order. The only challenge we may face lies in 494, and persuading him to take command. Max cannot lead those people. She has forgotten, it seems, that her subordinates have known nothing outside of Manticore, and it served them well. Seeing the degradation of the outside world, they cannot comprehend why they are fighting for a freedom that lacks proper rations, lodging, protection, training, and order; even the professional and, for some, personal camaraderie of their units. These things they value more so than the ability to walk unchecked in a world that is, to them, less than where they were before. A soldier trained within the walls of Manticore is the only choice for a leader. They are the only ones that the majority of the transgenic population would consider following. And it makes sense, does it not?"

I nodded fervently, for it truly did.

"When do you want to move out?"

I contemplated the question presented to me efficiently, responding in like style. "By daybreak. Earlier, if possible. Return to your quarters, and rendezvous here are 0300 hours. We leave at that point for Seattle."

She stared blankly at me for some time, and then smiled slightly as she saluted me silently and turned to leave. I watched her retreat for a few passing moments before taking my leave and returning to the farm. I knew meeting her here, discussing with her the situation and together agreeing on the most effective course of action, was a good move. Brin had always been good with strategy.

I was ready to leave, really; for all of the things I needed were with me right then. It appeared that Brin had been living alone, and in so most likely had very little to take care of. However, there was one thing left for me to do before our departure. A certain promise that I had to keep.

"Why are you doing this Adam? Why are you leaving?"

"You know why. Can't you understand? That's my life; that's my family, my people; they're the one's dying. This is my identity, who I am. I'm Zack, Caroletta. I'm X5-599. I'm a soldier, a killer. I can't be Adam. I'm not Adam, I never was Adam; I'll never be Adam. I'm not ordinary; I'm not even fully human. I don't want to be less than that anymore. Maybe at one time I did; maybe I craved a normal existence. But I can't do that anymore. I have to go back. I want to go back." I paused, as part of the simple farmhand I had been hiding as for so long took over as I explained further. "It's not that I don't care about you, and this family. I do. Everything you've done for me, I appreciate. I'm grateful, and I'll never be able to return the kindness you've all shown me. But now that I know who I really am, I can't ignore it. I can't walk away from my duty, my responsibility. Regardless of the risks, I have to leave."

"But…" she sounded so lost, so timid and frail. I could see the tears rolling down her cheeks and clinging to her eyelashes, glimmering in the moonlight that sifted in through her tattered woven curtains. I knew I had to say something…comforting. Yet the hardened warrior was beginning to take hold, and I knew that this time, Zack wouldn't let go. Because I no longer wanted him to; I yearned to be the man I had been before. And in so, I said the only words I could think of, the only words that seemed to fit. And in their haphazard presentation, in their random nature, they still seemed to make sense.

"Sometimes you have to make sacrifices to protect the ones you love."


End file.
